Page 2 of Falling Stars

I push him off with a laugh and watch him saunter away.

Patting down my hair, I let out a heartsick sigh as I study his bulging biceps and the way they flex. My eyes travel down his narrow waist to his perfect ass, which is encased in faded jeans that probably belonged to his older brothers.

Off he walks—into a crowd of cheerleaders who squeal and fawn over him. Including Nicole Ashbury, who’s the biggest suck-up at this school.

And that’s the problem.

Maverick Walker might be my best guy friend, but literally every girl here is in love with him. Well, everyone except Paige, who’s my other BFF. But she was struck by the Walker curse too and long ago fell in love with his older brother, Rhett, who recently got married.

As I watch Mav smile at all the pretty girls and lean over to hug Nicole, jealousy rips through me.

I know he made out with her last year. This is a small town, and I’ve heard the gossip. But I can’t be mad. He and I aren’ttogether. We’ve never been together. And although we’re affectionate with each other, he’s never tried to kiss me.

And that hurts.

Because it’s junior year. Isn’t this the time for kissing? If he had feelings for me, wouldn’t he at least try?

At least I haven’t heard that he’s kissed anyone this year, and I know he spends more time with me than any of those cheerleaders. Maverick and I hang out a lot, watching movies, doing homework together, and just vegging out with our families.

We could be high school sweethearts.

I see the montage so clearly in my mind. We’d go to homecoming together in a few weeks and spend the next two years sneaking off to make out. Of course we’d go to college together. We’d get married four years later, and I’d raise our kids and learn to bake sourdough bread from scratch while he played pro football.

Then he’d retire, and we’d come back to Wild Heart. Maybe we’d buy the Three Oaks Farm across from the Walker Ranch, and he’d teach our children how to run the family business with their cousins. I’d probably take over the salon from my mom by that point and grow fresh herbs and vegetables in my garden and make amazing homemade salsa.

And at night, after we put our kids to bed, Mav and I would sneak out to our backyard to watch the stars and have toe-curling sex.

I shake my head. Okay, I’m getting carried away with my fantasy.

Because there’s a huge problem with that future—I can’t afford college.

But if we loved each other? If we were committed? Could we handle being long distance?

I want to think our bond could endure anything.

First things first, though. Does he feel this chemistry too? Oris it all in my head and I’m delusional? Maybe I’m the only one who’s all worked up. I wish there was a way to tell.

Half an hour later, I trudge through the back door of Bumblebee Beauty Salon, which my mom inherited from my grandmother many moons ago. Back then, it was just called the Salon. “Hi, Mom!” I shout as I toss my backpack in her office. She gives me the stink-eye when I enter the main parlor area.

I walk over and hug her. She pauses sweeping to kiss my cheek. “Mija, how many times have I told you not to shout? What if I was trimming someone’s hair and you startled me and I cut itchueco?Me pones nerviosa cuando gritas.”

Is Mom really afraid she’ll give someone a crooked haircut? We don’t even have any customers right now. I’m about to razz her, but pause because she does look a little frazzled.

“I’m sorry. You’re right. I don’t want to test your nerves. I won’t yell again.” I wave at Vera, the other stylist.

My mom holds her hand to her ear. “Can you repeat that? Did you say I’m right?” Sylvia Reyes is where I get all my sass.

I laugh and take the broom out of her hands. “I’ve got this.” I work here part time after school and on the weekends, sweeping, washing dirty towels, sterilizing the workstations, and organizing supplies. It’s not glamorous, but since my parents divorced, my mom’s been struggling financially, and I want to do whatever I can to help.

“What time is the game?” she asks.

“Seven. Is it okay if I leave at six-thirty?”

“Yes, my little bumblebee.” She brushes my bangs out of my face. “How did your history test go?”

I cringe. “Is it important that I knowallthe Civil War dates? I mean, really. Am I going to be walking through life when a test pops out of the sky, asking me when the Battle of Antietam was?”

She rolls up some mail and smacks my ass. “Niña, if youdon’t pass that test, I’m only going to feed you bread and water for the next week.”

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